


Lobsters and Rakija

by nasnedogonyat



Category: Political RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Gun Kink, Homophobia, Hotel Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Politics, fashion!ben shapiro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25771753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasnedogonyat/pseuds/nasnedogonyat
Summary: The writing got rather mediocre in the end of this first chapter as I was getting hungry. However I promise the quality of the next chapter.Thanks to Tattie, Laz and Goat for being my mecenes <3Thanks to to Jurobit for being my serbia consultant.Also, Peterson is an emo as requested.
Relationships: Jordan B. Peterson/Ben Shapiro, Jordan Peterson / Aleksandar Vučić
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. The Twelve Rules Of Dispair

**Author's Note:**

> The writing got rather mediocre in the end of this first chapter as I was getting hungry. However I promise the quality of the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks to Tattie, Laz and Goat for being my mecenes <3  
> Thanks to to Jurobit for being my serbia consultant. 
> 
> Also, Peterson is an emo as requested.

“ What are they saying? ”

“Oh, you know, the usual. A lot of people are showing their support. One youtube comment called your recovery the best arc of 2020 so far.” 

Jordan heard a hesitation in Mikhaila’s voice. He knew she wasn’t going to tell him about his critics gloating in his misery. “ Well, let’s just hope we get some decent money from Adsense. Look sweetie, it’s getting late. I’m gonna go” he sighed as he let his iphone slip through his hand and fall on the floor. He just couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t take listening to her voice, knowing how supportive she was and how he was cheating her once again from the truth. The only reason he was successfully able to quit benzos was because he started drinking. He did manage to stay completely sober for a couple weeks but he quickly came to the realisation that insisting on it all just being a physical dependance and not a psychological addiction as well was -- as his fans would say -- a “cope”. Without benzodiazepines, his mind was full again, his thoughts were racing and would all somehow end up turning into the most dramatic bounds of depression and anxiety. His thoughts weren’t racing like before though, those weren’t ideas about lobsters and their society, those were thoughts about his own demise. His addiction had changed him. He didn’t experience the pleasant numbness and floaty feeling of drugs anymore but he wasn’t as sharp as before. He would spend insomnia-riddled nights watching old youtube videos of himself. JORDAN PETERSON BRUTALLY DESTROYS CUCK JOURNALIST. Oh, if only he could brutally destroy a cuck journalist again… There was some irony in the fact valium is usually a treatment for alcoholism and he was becoming alcoholic after being addicted to valium. One evening, as he poured himself a glass of scotch while participating in his new-found ritual, he wondered if the youtube views he was giving himself would be converted in money that would end up on his bank account.  
Money was becoming another one of his concerns. He wasn’t broke yet but he was accustomed to a certain upper middle class way of life. Serbia was cheap but the treatments weren’t. His family had spent a lot of money during this past year and there wasn’t any new form of income. It wasn’t like he was able to do his usual skype psychology sessions with young angry men with daddy issues. He certainly wasn’t a role model now. He did get an invitation to speak at some local event but he had ignored it. He wasn’t in shape and he didn’t come to fucking Serbia for that.  
His forehead was starting to hurt from his fingers pressing on it as he cupped his face when he heard a loud knock on the door. He wondered who it could be at this time of the evening. 

“Yooo mistehrr Peterrson! We’re big fans! Your book! It inspirred soo mehny of us here!”  
A group of very drunk young men he had never seen before were standing in front of the door. 

“Excuse me, it is very late and I am rather busy. Please don’t come here announced” he forgot to even thank them before closing back the door.  
It was the fourth time this had happened. He didn’t know how but some people had found out the location of his airbnb and they always came unannounced and at the most indecent hours.  
He dragged his feet back to his couch, opened his laptop and stared blankly for a good half an hour at the email inviting him to give a speech at the University of Novi Sad. He grabbed the bottle of scotch on the coffee table and didn’t even bothered pouring it in a glass. He swallowed as much as he could, enjoying the burn in his throat, and his eyes watering, wrote an email accepting the invitation.  
He knew fuck all about Novi Sad. It was probably like the rest of Serbia, a country famous only for starting World War I, Communism Lite and genocide. Before coming, he thought he would love it here but he quickly came to the realization it was just like any other country. Tainted by the west enough to not meet his criteria of Eastern Strength yet too poor and different for it to feel even a little bit like home. He spent the rest of the night drinking in silence until he fell asleep, the bottle still in his hand. 

* * *

Jordan took a cab from Belgrade to Novi Sad. The 1h30 ride didn’t cost much. When arriving in the city, he noticed some unrest in the streets but he didn’t bother asking the driver as he couldn’t listen to him blabber in his accent any longer. He wanted peace and couldn’t wait to be in his hotel room alone for 24h until the conference. The protests would probably calm down by then, and besides, for once, they had nothing to do with him.  
Waiting for the receptionist to show up in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel, he couldn’t help but to think to himself that the music choice was odd for such a place. This place probably wouldn’t be considered straight-up luxurious in America but it was still a 5 star hotel. He listened to the lyrics and despite his dissatisfaction the rock melody surrounding the words “What will it take to show you that it's not the life it seems? (I'm not okay) I've told you time and time again you sing the words but don't know what it means (I'm not okay)” really did ring true.  
He still felt relief when the receptionist finally came and gave him his keycard. “Room 39. Have a pleasant stay, Mr. Peterson” she said with a smile. 

He entered the room, let his jacked fall on the floor and stretched his arms. He had just put his small suitcase down when he heard steps and a man speaking in serbian coming from the other side of the suite. A sudden bound of rage took over him and his usually pale greyish face turned bright red. He couldn’t believe that even here he couldn’t find some calm. He was ready to yell and let his fury out when he encountered an unusually tall man.

“Jebote pa ko si ti? Šta radiš ovde čoveče, češ da zovem policiju? Aj mrš van!”

Jordan stared at the man in disbelief. He didn’t understand a word he said but he certainly seemed angry and somehow sure of himself. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying. This is my room”

“Ma, ‘my room’ kurac! Si novinar? Slušaj, bre, ako mi se ne makneš odmah s oči, plakat češ!” said the man while grabbing the handle of the door, however, he quickly came to the realisation the door was locked. He tried using his card but it didn’t change anything. They were locked inside together. 

“Look, sir, this is the key they gave me. Room 39, this is room 39, right?” said Peterson, slightly taken aback by the stranger’s assertiveness. 

“Stay here, don’t move, I’m calling security.” The tall man, who was wearing a dark grey suit and thick framed glasses, grabbed the hotel room’s phone and exchanged some new understandable words while his tone grew more and more aggressive. At one point he turned over his unexpected guest and asked him “What did you say your name is?” and then repeated the word Peterson to the person on the other line. The conversation lasted another couple minutes, after which, the man threw the phone on the floor so hard it probably did some damage to the machine. 

“We’re stuck here. The riots are getting more and more violent, explosions were noted and the protesters found out my location. My head of security tells me it's safer for me to be locked up with some american than to risk them getting in here.” 

Jordan decided it was probably not the right time to notify him that he was canadian and not american. “Head of Security? Excuse me, who are you?”

“You americans really are culturally challenged. I’m Aleksandar Vućić. I’m the president of this country.”


	2. Lobsters and Travarica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any innocent visitor stumbling upon this : I am so incredibly sorry.  
> This isn't representative of who I am as a person. I was literally held hostage while writing this. It took hours of my time and years of my life.

A couple hours had passed since their first meeting, the first hour completely silent. They had then exchanged a few sentences, introducing themselves, but right afterwards, they went back to not interacting with each other. The tension was palpable and the summer air heavy. Jordan wondered how Vučić wasn’t sweating in his suit but he figured that he must have gotten used to it, being a president. Aleksandar Vučić possessed a complex appearance: he stood 2m tall, had weirdly neotenous features for a man his age, with full lips and almost round cheeks despite not being fat, and moved in a almost rustic, certainly aggressive way, yet, you could still see he was educated. Peterson pondered if this was truly The Serb and not the young drunk men ringing his doorbell -- he certainly emanated a certain aura representative of the right-wing western fantasy of what The Pure Balkan Man was.   
At one point, Jordan wondered if he was staring too obviously at Aleksandar and decided to sneak into the bathroom and just google the man. He learned “Vučić” literally meant “small wolf” and that his parents were named Angelina and Anđelko (he remembered a meme his son-in-law had shown him : it was a 4chan screenshot that said: “How did Hitler get away with having his right hand called Himmler? That’s some Luigi and Waluigi type bullshit.”) He skimmed through his political stances and concluded this was a sane and smart man. He respected his determination to stay in power.   
When he got out of the bathroom, he saw Aleksandar quickly turn off his phone and sigh. 

“Looks like we are gonna be here a while.” Despite the strong accent, he was completely understandable. “Besides, if you want to drink, don’t drink this hotel liquor.”

Vučić opened his suitcase and presented his guest with a bottle of foreign alcohol. It was certainly humorous considering the cliché and the circumstances.

“This is Travarica. This is what real men drink. My wife’s father brew it.” 

Jordan hesitated but finally accepted the drink as Aleksandar poured one to himself as well and loosened his tie. 

* * *

Jordan tried to remember how he ended up with the president of Serbia biting his neck, a hand grabbing his crotch. The whole evening was so slow, hours of tense silence that never seemed to end until a short conversation about culture and politics that seemed to accelerate time to an unnerving speed. Not much was said, Vučić talked the way he moved : aggressive, sarcastic, but not without simplicity. He kissed that way too. It was Peterson who brought his face closer to Aleksandar’s, in a very discreet way, in a way he hoped could be mistaken for accidental physical closeness while having a heated political discussion, at least he hoped so, considering Serbia’s general culture around homosexuality. Not that Jordan Peterson was homosexual, he certainly wasn’t. I mean, he had a wife and even a child, he was one of the last straight men standing. He tried to think of the reason he did that : self hate, inebriation, the spur of the moment, or whatever. None of those were good reasons. He didn’t have time to think of more excuses before Aleksandar grabbed the back of his head and kissed him forcefully. He didn’t want to say anything, scared to enrage a dangerous man, or worse, to make him stop.   
Jordan didn’t know what to do with himself. He wanted to kiss back, to touch, to do more than just passively feel but the fear that any sort of engagement on his part would disrupt what was going on was paralyzing. He managed to bring his hand towards his partner’s body and it was welcomed with a light chuckle and the president unbuckling his belt. He stopped kissing and biting his guest’s neck and downed another glass of travarica while letting his trousers fall down his knees. Jordan went for his drink as well but just as he swallowed it, Aleksandar slapped him and said “Šta misliš da radiš? Aj, na posao!”

“You know I don’t understand anything you’re saying, right?” This last shot had given him a bit of courage. Or was it foolishness? 

“Of course you don’t. Why? Because you are a-me-ri-can!”

At this point, Jordan accepted his chances of making this man understand he wasn’t american were slim. He did feel a sort of rebelness growing in him, however. A small spark, but a spark nevertheless. This was the first time he felt even slightly alive in over a year. He smirked. “You’re just mad because we bombed the shit out of you.”

That was either a terrible or an amazing idea depending on the way to look at it. Vučić, taken by pure rage, shoved his entire cock in Peterson’s mouth. It was still semi-soft but already large, especially to a man who wasn’t accustomed to sucking dick. Vučić didn’t care for that though, holding Jordan’s by the back of his head, he thrusted a few times, until full hard, saying, already short of breath : “Slušaj, bre, ako ne zašutiš… ”  
When he finally took his cock out, Peterson took a few seconds to admire it. It was bigger than his, darker too. It wasn’t circumcised and Peterson envied that. He often missed his foreskin. He couldn’t admire it for too long before it was shoved right back into his mouth. His eyes were watering and his own shaft was starting to hurt from how contrived it felt in his pants. He wondered if he was gonna swallow the president’s load tonight. He didn’t have to wonder for long as Aleksandar pulled out. Jordan wondered why he was stepping away and opening his suitcase again when he saw him take out a gun. The shock quickly turned to panic but once he saw the gun in question from up closer he started to laugh.   
“What is this? A Gun from the XIXth century? “

“Ha-ha! You laugh but this is the gun used belong to the serbian king Milan Obrenović. It was gifted to me by Vladimir Putin.” 

This was surely worthy of respect and admiration but Peterson was still at loss as why this gun was even introduced. It was obvious by now that he didn’t need any threats to get the job done and the circumstances were quite odd for a history lesson. 

“Get up” orderdered Aleksandar. He grabbed Jordan’s shirt, pushed him against the wall and turned him over. “Don’t move.”   
As his trousers were getting unbuttoned, Jordan let out a sigh of relief. His cock was finally set free of constraint. His joy didn’t last long as he felt the cold metal creeping up his ass, finding its way between his cheeks and slowly but surely entering his anus.   
He wanted to scream, to protest, to escape even, but he knew Aleksandar could easily overpower him. It wasn’t about that though. This had already gone so far, so degenerate that he decided to embrace the situation. Besides, he wasn’t doing this for pleasure. He was punishing himself. He felt an immense surge of pain as the barrel of the gun entered his asshole but it didn’t last long.   
“Just getting you ready!” said Vučić in his thick accent.   
He wasn’t lying. He was just getting him ready, because soon enough, his cock replaced the gun. He fucked him for something that seemed to last an eternity until Peterson had the realisation he could actually jerk himself off at the same time. The eternity then seemed cruelly short.   
Peterson came first and the president came in a loud grunt shortly after. 

They had only been panting, exhausted for a few seconds when the hotel room’s telephone rang.


	3. Apples and Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Jordan Peterson gets back on his track untill a dinner with a version of Ben Shapiro that is well dressed. 
> 
> Not even to dinner with the Kushners??? but it's the Shapiros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this stoned out of my mind instead of studying the "marxist postmodern authors" Peterson loves to gloat against for my uni exams. By the way, most of the men he refers to ascribed to post-structuralism which isn't postmodern per se and they also tried to distance themselves from marxism because it was so heavily attached to structuralism.

Jordan lets out a content sigh of relief at the sight of his bank account. His new book is already bringing in new revenue and the public talk about him no longer turns around his addiction. The world is going to shit, Covid is raging everywhere, Trump lost, Trudeau is still here and the feminists are getting even cockier than before (France saw three misandrist books being published last summer alone!) but his life seems weirdly peaceful. Six months passed since his degenerate meeting with the serbian president and he’s been sober the whole time. Actually sober, no pills, no drinks.  
He doesn’t think about it, by the way. He just keeps a healthy routine filled with family time, work, exercise and hygiene. No pills, no drinks. He did start watching a lot of porn lately, though. He was never very much into it, maybe because up until now he wasn’t watching hardcore BDSM gay porn. He doesn’t consider it an addiction though as it’s not always porn. Sometimes it’s just frantic jerking off to memories that are slowly becoming stale. He doesn’t just do it once either, he does it until he’s completely emptied out : the dried semen on his stomach let’s him recollect better that magic moment he was left alone on the floor of that hotel room, completely used. A couple months ago, when the Hunter Biden leaked pictures came out, he spent days masturbating to the thought of the disgraced lawyer filling him up while high on crack.  
However those were not thoughts meant for a snowy and sunny afternoon. He texted his daughter that he was going to meet her and her husband at the JFK airport in 6 hours. He needed to hurry. There wasn’t much to pack, he was only staying in New York for the weekend. It was all a very hush-hush affair as it is well seen by the public to travel in these pandemic times. Ben Shapiro had invited him to a Hanukkah dinner in order to discuss a potential business plan. Books and podcasts are nice but every man needs to feel like he’s part of something important in life and this alliance could be an incredible opportunity for that, especially considering the current political climate. 

* * *

Jordan chased a mouthful of roast chicken with Perrier. The Brisket was probably delicious but it wasn’t a part of Jordan’s full-meat diet. He picked the dirty napkin next to his fork and scrubbed off his beard pondering on how a good Saint Emilion would be a delicious addition to this meal. He missed alcohol. He chased that thought away as quickly as he could. 

“This is delicious, Mor, a true delight.”

“Aw thank you, Jordan. We’re really glad to have you here for dinner, it has been a delight!” replied Ms. Shapiro with a warm smile. 

“Can you please point me to your bathroom?” asked Jordan trying to convey a sort of blasé yet polite kind of air.

Mor Shapiro took Mr. Peterson to the opposite part of the apartment down a very long hall. He locked the door as soon as he entered the bathroom and let his back fall on the door. He checked the time. 9 :34 P.M. This was usually the time he started indulging in his unhealthy masturbation coping mechanisms. The fact that he was thinking about wine wasn’t helping. A Bloomberg notification made his iPhone buzz : “Montenegro Says Closing its Border Over Covid Was a Big Mistake”. Jordan sighed and tried to recenter himself. He couldn’t let these thoughts take over. Montenegro. Serbia. Aleksandar… He let his right hand wander around his thigh. "I can’t keep doing this. I can’t do this right now. For fuck’s sake, you’re at a Chanukkah dinner, Jordan, there are people here!" he thought to himself as his hand was firmly pressing his cock through his slacks. 

Three quick knocks. “Jordan? Is everything all right in here?” a cheery and nasal voice asked through the door. Jordan’s whole body froze in panic as he tried to think of an excuse that could realistically get him out of this ridiculous situation. None came to mind. “Yes! Yes everything is fine.” His shaky voice mumbled some additional words as he got away from the door only to let out a gasp as Peterson saw it open. Apparently he didn’t lock the door as well as he thought he did. Ben took a step in the bathroom, the Bottega Venetta black loafer of his stumpy left leg blocking the entrance before Jordan could throw him out. Jordan wasn’t going to throw him out, though. He just stared at him and in a deep raspy voice asked “What the fuck. Who just gets into a bathroom like that?” Jordan didn’t care about politeness or any potential joint business ventures anymore, he was blinded by pure rage. Ben was blinded too, not by rage however, but by the outline of Peterson’s thick 6 inch dick that was extremely visible through his grey trousers. Ben Shapiro turned calmly and closed the door behind them, locking it for good this time. Then, without a sound, without a thought, led purely by his id, he fell on his knees and crawled on the cold white tiles of the floor until his mousy face was so close to Jordan’s crotch that the Professor could feel Ben’s breath on his dick. 

This was certainly an unexpected turn of events. None of this made sense in Jordan Peterson’s head. He was into punishing himself, into being used. But no one here was going to use him. There was some punishing to do, nevertheless. You can’t just enter an occupied bathroom like this.  
His fingers ran through Ben’s short black hair, down his face, down his cheeks, all the way down his pink full bottom lip where they rested for just a second before entering in the kneeled man’s already open and panting mouth. “You filthy faggot, is this what you do while your wife is down the hall?” 

“That is an ad hominem. Besides, let’s say hypothetically that I’m on my knees right now, I could have just fallen on the floor. However, in this scenario you’re the one with the hard juicy cock which would lead me to believe that you are in fact, the homosexual one…” Ben was slowly getting out of breath. 

“Don’t you ever shut up? You’re gonna see just how hard and juicy it is.”

Jordan Peterson hastily opened the zipper of his pants and shoved his already swollen red member down the short man’s throat. He growled along the two hard thrusts. He quickly became bored of this. He didn’t want this to happen like this. He wondered if The Shapiros had guns anywhere in this apartment. With his right hand, Jordan slapped Ben and grabbed him by the collar. “Get up.” He pushed him against the wall and hurriedly turned him around. The undoing of Ben’s beige Valentino belt took some effort as everyone’s hands were trembling. But as soon as that was solved, Shapiro’s Marni slacks fell down his knees and he immediately felt the head of Jordan’s cock spreading his cheeks. He wanted to protest, to let him know that he has lube in the drawers (after all, his wife doesn’t have a “WAP”), but an otherworldly force compelled him to keep his mouth shut. A sudden rush of burning pain filled his insides but the moan that came out his mouth was more pleading for more than pleading for less. 

“Oh so you like this? You filthy slut.”

Jordan didn’t wait any longer to start pounding. “If only your mother saw you. Her Nice Jewish Boy being such a degenerate. Getting fucked raw by a true man on a Chanuqa dinner.” Those words drove Ben over the age as he soiled the wall. He didn't even touch himself. Jordan came soon after in a deep runt. 

They both took a step back from each other and cleaned themselves in silence. They didn’t even think about their families or how they were going to explain all of this. They both checked their phones at the same time when they heard a text message notification sound. 

“Steve says everything is alright and that the project is motion.” Ben said through a peaceful smile.

“Steve? I didn’t know you and Bannon were on a first name basis.” Jordan Peterson was exhausted but something really good was going to come out of this.

“Welcome to America, Jordan.”


End file.
